


Long lost but not forgotten (or forgiven)

by CravenWyvern



Series: DS Extras [64]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Torture, Mental Instability, headcanons galore, implied/referenced child murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:38:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24710173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CravenWyvern/pseuds/CravenWyvern
Summary: Wendy and Webber bring the pipspooks back to camp.
Series: DS Extras [64]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/688443
Comments: 5
Kudos: 26





	Long lost but not forgotten (or forgiven)

When Wendy and Webber had come back to camp after a long night of full moon, a long night of dealing with an annoying, thieving goose and that soft glow of wandering lost ghosts and spirits that drifted on the outskirts, watching them silently in their undeath, it was still early morning. 

The grasses were damp from the brief shower in the late night, a spring mist that dissipated as the sun rose, and Maxwell was whole heartedly focused upon the Shadow Manipulator, threads of nightmare fuel slicking from its inner workings as he molded the oils, pasting them to the gold and red gems he had on hand. The chest situated right by the machine's orbit already had a few amulets tossed inside, and his last trip to the ruins had given him enough for many more of these reviving loopholes, so making as many as possible was at the top of his to do list.

The severe lack of touchstones nowadays required a bit more forethought in this art. Hearts can only go so far, and the old man's wrists were suffering enough to make creating those things to be too much of a hassle. Not to mention how...lesser, the hearts he made were in comparison to the others. His blood seemed to be just too thick for the telltale hearts to handle, and then there was the issue of when someone actually ended up _using_ them…

Still, the Life amulets were much easier to create, much easier to sculpt and tether into existence and use. The act of letting the oils do so much of the work, molding the gold into shape and pinching the chains together with his fuel slicked fingers, then insetting a blazing warm heartbeat of a red gem into the core, to become focus and center piece, was almost cathartic.

And then there was the sudden chittering announcement of spider sound, the soft, barely there buzzing hum of a ghostly, long dead niece, and Maxwell heaved a sigh as he laboriously raised his head to look to the front of camp.

As expected, there was Wendy and Webber, trotting along with packs full of whatever they had ended up gathering under the full moon's light. The spider child looked quite energetic, excited even, and somehow even Wendy had a lightness to her step, Abigail circling around and around, playfully darting about and chasing-

The crowded mob of soft, round glowing lights that hummed all about the children.

Maxwell was not the only person caught off guard, the fuel in his hands vibrating warm and slick as it reacted to his shock; a few of the others still in camp let out the expected noises of surprise, a pause in the air as the children and their mob of accompanying ghosts fully entered into camp. 

A part of him had expected chaos, an outburst of sound, but Maxwell watched as Wickerbottom rose from her seat by the fire, papers and worksheets set to the side, and hobbled her way to greet the children. A few of the glowing soft spirits darted about her, hovering curiously by her cane, and even this far Maxwell could see their shapes flicker, spread and form briefly into humanoid forms, lost memories of who they had once been before meshing back into ectoplasmic residue spheres.

With the old woman's approach the others got their courage, or senses, up enough to move forward, see what was going on, and Maxwell watched as even Higgsbury edged his way over, next to Winona and a very tired out looking Woodie. The firestarter was crouched down already, looking curious as Bernie waved paws up from his spot on the ground, a few of the ghostly shapes taking form enough to poke and prod and, somehow, even look to be giggling as they played with the teddy bear.

Maxwell stood there, nightmare fuel thick in his hands and the gold going a hint cold as it hung in half finished chains from his fingers, and a heavy pit started to open up in his gut. The spirits all floating about, playing with each other and with Abigail, some looking up to Wickerbottom as she spoke and introduced herself to each and every one, a soft smile just barely hiding her shock and curiosity from her old wrinkled face, some laughing with Willow or examining Winona and Woodie with wide eyes, ogling Higgsbury as he leaned ever so slightly back, away from them as they invaded his space a bit, their ghastly forms taking more and more a shape to them, a recognizable one even Maxwell could understand-

A dark realization settled in his chest, to that foreboding pit in his gut, and Maxwell whistled out a strained breath, realized he had been holding it, and forcefully turned his attention into putting away the nightmarish supplies he had on hand. The Life amulets can wait.

Closing the fuel stained lid of the chest with a slow, quiet finality, he had to take a few more steadying breathes, get himself back together. It was just surprise, was all, a shock to the system that had his heart pounding unevenly hard in his chest, a vague nausea bubbling under the surface and the slightest of shaking in his limbs, but it had just caught him off guard.

Just a bit surprising, is all.

...oh god, did he hope he didn't recognize any of them. He'd beg the very Queen herself, please don't let him recognize them, not a single one.

And yet, when he had slowly dragged himself to the scene of warm friendliness and darting about, playing ghosts and spirits, to the other members of camp finally growing a bit warmer to the sudden influx of company, it was with a heavy heart Maxwell caught the visages of half familiar markings of many a lost child.

Short pigtails, from the one racing about Woodies legs, chasing another that had the curly mess of hair stuck with bits of twigs and leafs, the faint impressions of mouths opening into ghostly hued laughter. Large round glasses, the dark hinted spots of freckles from a rounder form looking up to Wickerbottom nodding as she spoke down to the crowd as the caring adult that they would see her as, shaggy wavy hair from the one poking the gold walrus tusk cane, buck toothed and glowing form hued grey dark before beaming bright in excitement. Two by Higgsbury, one with cropped hair and that slight shivery tremble to the half formed ghostly limbs, braided hair patterned about the head on the other as hands were waved in untethered hyperness, flapping as the spirits took turns floating about Wilson's head and staring at his odd hairstyle, even as the man spoke hesitantly, curiosity and that vague fatherly look growing thicker in his eyes by the minute.

The ones by Bernie and Willow were mismatched pairs, soft glows bobbing into each other before peeling back, siblings holding hands tight and still not ever willing to let go, the oldest a smudged form surrounded by youngers as they all laughed and giggled and held small hands to pet over the teddy bears worn head and ears. Willow was smiling to an even smaller one, form shifting dainty and thin, fair hair tied in a small knot atop the head, those even smaller hands fiddling with her charred skirt and looking wide eyed up at the firestarter.

There was more, ponytails and missing gap tooth smiles and fuzzy hairstyles that meshed into ectoplasmic foggy shapes, forgotten and yet half remembered, even so far as the faintest glint of what had to be braces on one particularly lanky clumsy one who kept stumbling, even floating about as they all were, and all Maxwell could do was stand there and look upon them, the heavy pit gaping wider and wider, something sodden and terrible eating through his chest the longer he stayed in their vicinity.

The others were still preoccupied, would probably be distracted for quite awhile really, so many new faces, new half remembered names, half remembered smiles and voices that only hummed ghostly out as Abigail floated between them all and guided them about from whatever lost fears they once had into this glowing company of _people_ , when was the last time any of them had even seen living _people_ -

It took a moment for Maxwell to stutter in a breath, force himself to fill his lungs, chest with the cold humid spring air, that faint filmy taste of cold nothingness that bled of ghost presence, of half forgotten memory, and it was taking all he had into not turning himself about and running away. His hands were trembling by his sides and, it was a bit too sudden, way _too_ sudden, why here, why now? 

He's almost forgotten about it all, really. Out of sight, out of mind; an easy practice, to forget, and it was becoming simpler, making himself forget the Throne and his time upon it, aided by the fact that no one else ever wanted it mentioned, never wanted to remember that time. 

Not even Higgsbury wanted to discuss it any longer, wanted to remember what Maxwell had done to him oh so long ago now, if it could be called long in the infinite time mess that the Constant ran on. The man still woke with nightmares at times, shaking from the easier ones, sobbing from the worst, and Maxwell has sat with him many a time, the guilt and shame eating him alive at remembering it all.

If no one else wanted to remember, then he would not push it. Putting those memories back, forcing himself to forget, it had made some things...easier.

After all, speaking to Wigfrid of all people had gotten better, less tense, less hostile. Pushing those memories back, away, made their interactions far more cordial. Forgetting it all was for the best.

Except, now surrounded by ghosts and the soft conversation as the living acquainted itself to the dead in the friendly, companionable manner the survivors have always upheld to others, Maxwell was flooded with the deepest sense of horror and guilt that he's ever really felt in a long, long time.

One of the ghosts, a small one, pale and only vaguely flashing images of long forgotten appearance and sense of self, only the faintest impression of waif soft hair and bone thin limbs, the impression of a child's dress and large, wide empty eyes, drifting to his feet only to stare up, way upwards to his face, his pitch black dark eyes and curdled sour face and the upheaval of overwhelming, too much suddenness-

It got very, very quiet, as every other spirit stopped what it was doing, just to turn and stare up at him, near all at once.

That got the others attention. That stopped the words in their throats, had them turn their curious eyes, now slowly darkening with the sudden understanding, realization, and that now made them all, undead childs ghost and living survivor pawn, look upon him with undivided attention.

Maxwell couldn't help but visibly flinch, a half step back at the sudden movement, the sudden silence, and for a moment it was quiet, a tense air caught between gazes, his long corrupted pitch black to the many stares that stayed locked upon him.

They...they must all remember him, then. Just like every other ghostly spirit that rose from a grave he'd dig up. Accusing stares he could feel crawling about his very skin, digging, gnawing deep to his shaking bones, and Maxwell sucked in a tense breath, lungs whistling from the stress.

"I-if...if you would all excuse me…"

Even so strained his voice only wavered once, only broke once, and with that Maxwell tore his gaze away from the lot of them, swung around, and forced himself to walk away.

Each step felt more and more unsteady, wobbly as his knees grew ever weaker, but he did not raise his gaze from the padded dirt and yellowed grass, did not look back even once, each step taken to get further and further away from them all, from it all, and-

He's tried so hard, to forget. To not remember what he had done, what he had… _lived_ for, back then, what had been available to him, all the word his stage and his plaything and _his_ , all just _his_ to do as he wished, as he pleased.

No one wanted to remember that, wanted to speak of it, so he had followed their lead. Bringing it up would have most certainly led to his death, or at least some form of pain; even in the beginning when he'd nag Wilson on what he remembered of the time before losing the Throne he'd get snapped at, sometimes it could even lead to a physical fight that he would always end up losing, sometimes, when things were bad, it did end with his murder. It was usually his fault anyhow, so Maxwell had kept himself quiet whenever a comment cropped up that hinted to his time as Nightmare King.

And now it was all coming right back up in his face, all those accusing, innocent eyes, confused and lost, long lost, and _he had been the cause for all that._

They had all suffered, he knew, all too well did he know it. Not one of their deaths had been peaceful, not one of their many, many deaths, and he had never helped matters.

The Shadow Tyrant had only just made matters all the worse. Sometimes it was with his own hands.

They shook now, even as he balled them up into fists, even as he finally left camp and those staring, watching, knowing eyes. _He_ shook, now, and breathing was strained, jagged and wheezed, and yet he made himself keep walking, keep trying to push the floodgates of his memory back, keep trying to ignore it all, forget it all.

There was no reason, to remember what he had done. He used to think himself in circles, surviving alone and with only his ever aching thoughts for company, both hating and loving and _missing_ the Throne, but in this camp so full of those he has wronged Maxwell has been taking measures to push it all back, drain it out of him by any means necessary. 

Using the nightmare fuel helped. Making telltale hearts that barely worked, corrupt with all he has done to himself in connecting with the shadows like he has, it _helped_. 

Forgetting _helped_. Living in a camp with others meant forgoing that old nature of his for the sake of comfortable living, of surviving, and he...admittedly appreciated the company. It was something he never had, upon the Throne, not like this. Shadows were not comparable to real, living humans, and never would be, no matter how much he'd sometimes try to convince himself.

And now...now, they'd all be reminded again. For all the efforts he has done, they'd remember that they _hated_ him, and that there was reason to, there was actual tried true reason, and that he had _no excuse_ for what he had done.

There was a plethora of children in camp now, dead and undead and forever lost, and it was _**all his fault.**_

His legs weren't going to hold him for much longer, shaking terribly as his heart thundered in his chest, as he struggled to keep breathing, in and out, and finally Maxwell stumbled to one of the many trees of the forest that thronged farther from camp, finally let himself slide down against its trunk, lungs whistling and feeling near violently ill now, so fucking sick.

He...he still remembered, no matter how hard he'd try. While Wilson woke from nightmares, screaming from amnesia prone memories that haunted him, Maxwell has awoken from dreams of the Throne.

Not just from the sheer horror and entrapment, no. He's never shown sign of it, how sometimes he'd sit up and his heart felt giddy and his limbs felt strong and full and _complete_ , and his mind would be haunted by crystal clear memory of just how it felt, killing a living, breathing person with the most gleeful feeling rising to his throat.

It was...better, when it was just the blood on his hands that painted red and clawed dark like the shadows of Them in his dreams. He's done worse, on the Throne, and those dreams left him shaky and gagging from the sheer excitement of how he remembered it.

It was godawful, sickening and wonderful in equal measures, and it was so very hard to make himself forget, make himself ignore it even as he continued living with the very people he _remembered_ hurting, _remembered_ how much he _loved_ hurting them all, and it made him so damn ill that often times retreating to the caves with the flimsy excuse for more nightmare fuel was his only viable option.

...there were so many children in camp now, children he remembered. The Constant took many of them, with his monsters or the weather or the overexposure.

He didn't want to, didn't want to even _dare_ think of how many he's killed himself, in fits of manic high shadow panic, glee and terror and overpowering sense of self that let him do _whatever he fucking wanted to do._

The Throne allowed him too much, and he had taken to it all too easily to be forgiven. Maxwell knew that, very well.

He knew, also, that once Abigail relayed that information over from the lost spirits, once Wendy handed over that sullen information to the others, he was deeply sure he'd not be welcome back to camp for a good long while. It was honestly what he expected, and he knew what he deserved.

The tree, pine needles coating the roots he was collapsed upon and pricking up his worn suit, it was enough of an anchor right now. To force himself to lean back, breath, keep breathing. Sheer force of will allowed him a blank mind, for a few minutes at the very least, and Maxwell knew he'd need to organize himself soon, figure out how to properly address what he knew was coming, what he'd need to handle when he went back to camp to gather a few things, but right now his body still shook in shocks of barely contained panic and horror, this sheer horror eating through him, and he had to focus, force it out before it consumed him. 

The faint shocks, memories of the many, many _children_ , kept dogging him, jabbing his mind in the most unpleasant of ways, but Maxwell shoved them away as best as he could. He couldn't...couldn't think of that, he _can't_ -

And then a low sound snapped him out of it, jerking up and scraping the tree enough to force a hiss of pain out of him, scrambling back automatically, expecting a spear or two or five, angry, rage filled, familiar faces and a demand for explanations they already knew the answer of-

But it was only a soft, faint glow before him, small and shallow, faint. 

The child looked up at him, wide eyes blank and hollow. Empty, of self and memory, long erased by the Constants ever hungry, consuming nature.

Maxwell stared back, near splayed in barely contained panic against the tree trunk, caught in the gaze of this one, small, lost ghost.

Faintly, the misty fog of ethereal plasma faded, shifted, formed, and this one must be an older one, far older, perhaps one of the first he brought here and thus was lost here, because not a single recognizable hint broke through their form. Just a small figure, small body, small hands and feet and head and shape, small and faded and only those large, gaping empty, hollow eyes.

Maxwell stared at them, as they stared long and dull and emptily at him, and that gaping pit pushed forward a much harder lump to lodge in his throat.

"I'm...I'm so sorry."

His voice was weak, wobbling as he spoke through the heavy weights pressing in on him from all sides, this realization and understanding of what he had done, what he….what he had _loved_ doing, so far back then upon that Throne of shadows and bindings and nipping, cooing, loving shadows. It was crashing down, no matter what he was trying to force, no matter how much he ignored it all, these things he had done and how much he had put himself into his actions, and-

It was like what he used to say to Wilson late in the nights when things were rough and the world had gone grey and black and shadowy infested, the Constants air bearing down hopelessly all around him.

_My actions speak louder than my words._

"I, I'm-" His breath hitched, a harsh feeling rising up his throat, strangling his lungs, his words, and Maxwell didn't even notice the tears already falling down his face, cold and wet and choking as something terrible and guilt ridden wracked through him. "I'm so, so very sorry-"

He could hardly choke down the sob, this utter well of emotions he didn't want to ever acknowledge, understand inside himself, and the ghost child only stood there, staring, watching him.

Did it know him? Did it know what he had _done_? 

Did it even care anymore, or was that long lost to it?

The ghost watched as Maxwell sobbed, curling in on himself and pressing his head into his hands, crushed under the burying sense of everything that his actions have caused, everything that _he_ had caused, and all it did was stare, empty and hollow and long, long gone.


End file.
